‘And now,’ I bellowed, ‘my master will pass among you and relieve you of all those heavy coins in your pockets and purses!’
The rich man stared at me in evident astonishment for a moment; then he laughed again and reached for his purse. When my master came close to him, holding out his jester ’s hat, the man threw in a coin – not the usual croat, but a heavy gold crown. My master noticed this and bowed respectfully, before moving on.
The crowd began to disperse but the rich man remained where he was, watching as Alexander packed up his various props. Then he sauntered towards the stage.
‘Mister Darke,’ he said, in a slow, cultured voice. ‘I must congratulate you on a most hilarious performance. I have heard nothing but good things about your act and decided to come and judge for myself.’
Alexander bowed low a second time. ‘You honour me, Sir,’ he said. ‘I try to please as wide an audience as possible.’
‘And you succeed, admirably! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Frobisher of the Royal Court of Jerebim, loyal subject and advisor to his Majesty King Cletus the Magnificent.’
‘Ruddy Nora!’ I said.
I couldn’t help it, it just slipped out. I’d never been so close to royalty before.
Alexander gave me a wary look but Lord Frobisher seemed amused.
‘That’s a remarkable beast you have there,’ he observed. ‘I have been told that he performs a song at the start of your act but, sadly, I arrived too late to hear it.’
He cast a baleful look across to his servants.
‘These curs will taste the whip when they get home for being so tardy.’
‘Oh, don’t do that!’ I cried.
Lord Frobisher gave me a startled look.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.
‘It’s just that . . . well, I know what it’s like to be beaten and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. If it pleases you, sir, I shall sing the song for you now and then there is no need to beat anybody.’
Lord Frobisher ’s expression darkened for a moment, but then he seemed to relent.
‘As you wish, Master Buffalope. Pray, sing!’
So I did as he commanded, making sure I enunciated every word clearly and, by the time I got to the end of the song, Lord Frobisher was smiling and tapping his foot to the rhythm, like any robust villager.
‘Splendid!’ he said, as I took my own little bow. ‘Quite clearly this beast is an important part of your act, Mr Darke. It is fortunate indeed that you found him.’
He glanced quickly around and then stepped closer, as if to confide a secret.
‘I shall get straight to the point,’ he said. ‘His eminence the King has been, of late, in poor spirits. As you may be aware, his wife, your late Queen, has been dead some years and there has been nobody to replace her in his affections. He is, as I’m sure you know, the father of a thirteen-year-old son and, without the stability of a wife to guide him in that respect, has consequently been in a melancholic frame of mind for quite some time.’
Alexander nodded warily, perhaps guessing where this was going and feeling somewhat apprehensive about it.
‘It has occurred to me,’ continued Lord Frobisher, ‘that his Majesty would benefit from some good old hearty laugher. That’s where you come in. I propose to organise a birthday entertainment for his majesty, featuring the very best dancers, jugglers and of course, top of the bill, the funniest jester in the land. Now, there were some who assured me that one Jonathan Jolly was the man to approach . . .’
Alexander nodded good-naturedly.
‘Mr Jolly does have a splendid reputation,’ he said.
‘A quite undeserved one, if you ask me,’ said Lord Frobisher. ‘I caught his act yesterday and I was far from impressed. Nothing but a bunch of abuse heaped on his unfortunate wife.’
‘Hear, hear!’ I said.
‘I have to say, Mr Darke, that I thought you were much funnier.’
‘You’re very kind to say that,’ said Alexander. ‘But to play in front of the King? I’m not sure that I . . .’
‘What my master is trying to say,’ I interrupted hastily, ‘is that he’s not sure whether we might not already have a booking for the day in question. When is the King’s birthday, exactly?’
Lord Frobisher looked affronted by my ignorance.
‘In exactly seven days’ time,’ he told me. ‘As any loyal subject would be able to tell you.’
‘I knew that,’ said Alexander quickly, but I was far from convinced.
‘And Mr Darke, if you do have a booking for then, I would suggest that you change it, immediately! This is an incredible honour for any act . . . not to mention a handsome fee of three gold crowns!’
Again Alexander bowed.
‘Your Lordship is too kind,’ he said. ‘That is surely far too much . . .’
‘ . . . to waste on an act as inferior as that of Jonathan Jolly,’ I finished. ‘We look forward to the performance and will do our utmost to bring laughter to our beloved king, of that you can be most sure.’
Alexander threw me a furious scowl but I ignored it. Some people just don’t want to be helped. Lord Frobisher reached into his handsomely embroidered tunic and pulled out a piece of parchment, bearing the wax seal of the Royal Court.
‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Be at the palace gates prompt at noon in seven days’ time and show this pass to the guards. And mark you, Mr Darke, ensure that you perform only your most hilarious routines. I want to see his Majesty recover his good spirits. Then he might look favourably upon some projects I have in mind.’
I might have known there’d be an ulterior motive. Humans rarely do anything out of the goodness of their hearts.
Lord Frobisher turned away with a swish of his purple cloak.
‘Until seven days’ time,’ he said, and climbed back into his sedan chair.
We watched as the servants lifted the device from the ground and swung around in the direction of the palace. One of them mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ to me as they struggled by.
We waited until Lord Frobisher was out of earshot.
‘Thanks a heap,’ muttered Alexander, at last. ‘I was doing my best to get us out of that.’
‘Yes, and I can’t imagine why. Hear that knocking sound? That’s opportunity, that is and you must always answer a call like that; you’d be crazy not to.’
Alexander frowned.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The Royal Court of Jerebim? I’ve never appeared anywhere so grand in my life. Supposing the King doesn’t like me?’
‘Of course he’ll like you!’ I told him. ‘You’ll have me with you for a start-off and everyone likes me. You saw that Lord Frobisher ’s face when I was singing. It looked like he was about to soil his breeches.’
‘Well, thank goodness he didn’t,’ said Alexander.
He reached into the hat he was holding and plucked out the gold crown.
‘Imagine,’ he said. ‘He’ll pay us another three of these. Sarah will be delighted; we’ll be able to buy the proper table and chairs she’s been wanting.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ I told him. ‘We’re going up in the world, Master. We’re playing for the quality now. If the King finds you funny, who knows where it might lead?’
Alexander sighed.
‘And if he doesn’t find me funny?’
‘Honestly, you’re a terrible worrier,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be brilliant, you just wait and see!’
Chapter 18
A Rival
But it didn’t take long to discover that not everybody was as pleased by our good fortune as I was. Only the following day, as my master was performing on a makeshift stage outside a tavern in the town of Glumm, there was a sudden commotion amidst the audience and a familiar burly figure came pushing and shoving his way through the press of spectators. He was dressed in the distinctive multicoloured uniform of a jester.
‘What the bloody ’ell do you think you’re playing at?’ bellowed Jonathan Jolly.
/>
My master broke off in mid joke and gazed down at his enemy for a moment in surprise. Then he recovered himself.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, calmly. ‘We are honoured to have a special guest with us today. Mr Jonathan Jolly, King of Comics.’
A few people in the crowd started to applaud but were cut short by Jolly’s reply.
‘Don’t try and worm your way out of it with smart remarks,’ he cried, climbing the two steps to the stage. ‘I’ve heard about your underhand dealings. Just who do you think you are?’
He turned to address the crowd.
‘This snake in the grass has stolen my chance to perform for King Cletus!’ he told them. ‘Yeah, that’s right. On our beloved King’s birthday. It should have been me, but no, it will be this upstart instead.’
‘Nobody has stolen anything,’ Alexander assured them. ‘Lord Frobisher viewed both of our acts and decided that mine was the one the King would most enjoy. It was as much a surprise to me as it clearly has been to Mr Jolly. But nothing underhand went on.’
There were murmurs and nods of assent from the crowd, but Jolly wasn’t so easily appeased.
‘Who in his right mind would choose your miserable excuse for an act over mine?’ he protested ‘Everyone knows, I’m the funniest jester in all the land and I have been for twenty years.’
‘Yes,’ I quipped, from the side of the stage. ‘Unfortunately you’re still using the same jokes.’
This caused a ripple of laughter amongst the crowd, but Jolly clearly wasn’t amused.
‘And as for that fleabag,’ he said, pointing down at me, ’I don’t know how you can stand being in the same place. I mean, aren’t you aware of that awful stench?’
‘Yes,’ said Alexander. ‘But stay right where you are, Mr Jolly, I’m sure we’ll all get used to it.’
There was more laughter from the crowd, stronger now. Jolly’s eyes bulged and his flabby face turned a deep shade of crimson.
‘Why you . . . don’t try and match your wits with mine, Darke, because you’ll only make yourself look stupid. I could out-joke you under the table.’
‘Perhaps,’ I told him. ‘But wouldn’t you be more comfortable standing up?’
Again the crowd responded. Jolly stared resentfully around at them for a moment.
‘Hah!’ he sneered. ‘I don’t know what you lot are laughing at.’
‘It’s called a joke,’ I told him. ‘You should try telling one yourself sometime.’
‘You call that a joke?’ He grinned wildly around at the audience. ‘Here’s one for you,’ he said. ‘What’s fat, stupid and full of wind?’
‘Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself,’ said Alexander; and the crowd erupted into laughter once again.
‘I didn’t mean me,’ snapped Jolly. ‘I was talking about that buffalope! He . . . he thinks he can tell jokes as good as any man.’
‘Not any man,’ I assured him. ‘Just you. Mind you, that’s not difficult.’
I turned my head and winked at the crowd.
‘You know, Mr Jolly was born on a farm . . . I wonder if there were any more in the litter?’
‘I’m not saying he’s ugly,’ said Alexander. ‘But when he comes into a room, mice jump onto chairs.’
‘His wife keeps a portrait of him on the mantelpiece,’ I said. ‘It keeps the kids away from the fire.’
‘He was planning to kill all the people who disliked him . . .’ said Alexander. ‘But they said it would be genocide!’
‘Mind you,’ I added, ‘he still loves nature, despite what it did to him.’
‘And talk about stupid,’ said Alexander. ‘If ignorance is bliss, he must be the happiest man alive!’
Jolly tried to splutter something in his defence but, having seized the opportunity, we weren’t going to let it pass us by.
‘We could make him look stupid,’ I said. ‘But why should we take all the credit?’
‘If he had an original thought it would die of loneli - ness.’
‘He doesn’t know the meaning of fear – but then, he doesn’t know the meaning of most words.’
‘If brains were gunpowder, he wouldn’t have enough to blow his hat off.’
‘If brains were taxed, he’d get a rebate.’
‘If you gave him a croat for his thoughts, you’d be owed some change.’
I almost felt sorry for Jolly. He was being blasted from either side with no chance of getting a word in edgeways. By now the people in the crowd were laughing out loud at him and he didn’t like it one little bit.
‘Shut up a minute!’ he roared at them. ‘Shut up, I say!’
He waved his arms at them until they quietened down.
‘Why don’t we put it to the vote, eh? Those who think I’m the funniest jester, say Aye.’
There was a long damning silence.
Then somebody in the crowd shouted, ‘Get off, fatso, we want to watch the rest of the act.’
Jolly reeled back as though he had been punched.
‘Who said that?’ he yelled, pacing up and down. ‘Step forward whoever said that and I’ll knock your bloomin’ block off! How dare you insult the King of Comics?’
‘The King of Crap, you mean,’ shrieked an old crone in the crowd. ‘Shove off and let’s hear the Prince of Fools!’
‘You stupid old ratbag!’ yelled Jolly. ‘Who cares what you think?’
Now boos and jeers were coming from the crowd. Jolly was working himself up into a real frenzy and didn’t seem to realise that he was simply inviting the crowd to turn against him.
‘What do you morons know about comedy, anyway?’ he roared. ‘I was on the road cracking jokes when most of you were in your cradles! You ingrates! I’ve entertained you for years. Years! And this is the kind of thanks I get. You really think these two are funnier than me?’
‘AYE!’ There was no hesitation; the reply came back loud and strong.
‘Imbeciles!’ he roared. ‘You don’t deserve me!’
A piece of ripe fruit came whizzing out of the crowd and splattered against Jolly’s colourful tunic with a dull plop. He stared down at it in dismay.
‘Who threw that?’ he bellowed. ‘Step forward who did that and apologise.’ Nobody did.
‘If you lot throw one more thing, I’m leaving and I’m never coming back . . .’
Alexander ’s eyes widened in alarm and he ducked quickly behind one of his prop baskets. It had been a wise move. As if at an unseen signal, a fusillade of objects came flying from the crowd – fruit, stones, handfuls of mud, whatever came to hand. Jolly’s colourful figure became even more so as a barrage of soft items splattered him from head to foot. As a final insult, a fresh cowpat came hurtling over the heads of the onlookers and hit him full in the face.
The crowd fell suddenly silent, feeling perhaps that they had gone too far. Jolly stood there, the fresh dung running down his face and steaming in the sunlight.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘That does it.’
He stepped down from the stage and pushed his way through the crowd. A great cheer went up as he walked away. I gazed after him, almost with a sense of sadness. Jonathan Jolly had just learned a powerful lesson. Never disrespect your audience.
I don’t know what happened to him after that. Perhaps he moved away. Perhaps he gave up jestering and became a farmer or a blacksmith. Who can say? I only know that I never heard tell of him again.
As for my master, he emerged from his hiding place to enthusiastic cheers and went on with his act, as if nothing had happened. But afterwards, when he was packing away his props, I saw that he looked sad and I asked him what was troubling him.
‘I hope we weren’t too hard on Mr Jolly,’ he said. ‘For all his faults, he was an accomplished jester.’
That was Alexander Darke for you. Such a forgiving nature. It sometimes made me wonder how he ever expected to get on in life.
Chapter 19
By Royal Appointment
The King’s birthday approache
d and my master seemed to grow more anxious with each passing day. He rehearsed and rehearsed his act, trimming out any material he was not one hundred per cent happy with. I am proud to say that I was of great assistance in this. Every joke that went into the Royal Performance had to pass ‘the Max test’: that is to say, if it didn’t strike me as being at least mildly amusing, it was thrown out.
Meanwhile, Sarah washed and pressed Alexander ’s finest outfit (a rather dashing number featuring black and yellow diamonds), she cut his hair so that it hung neat and straight to his shoulders and she insisted that, the night before the performance, he should have a bath, immersing his whole body in hot water, which she painstakingly heated over an open fire out in the yard.
She then produced a bar of scented soap, which she had procured from a Berundian merchant and she directed my poor master to apply it to himself. He emerged from the bath smelling like a flower garden in midsummer. I was trying not to laugh, when I noticed Mistress Sarah gazing thoughtfully at me and I quickly made myself scarce, not wishing to suffer a similar fate.
On the morning of the King’s birthday, Sarah prepared my master ’s favourite breakfast of fried gallock eggs and javralat rashers, while she provided me with a bucket of sweet red pommers. If I close my eyes, I can still taste them, even after all these years.
When Alexander came out to the stable, dressed in the colourful but rather tight-fitting costume, I asked him if he’d enjoyed his breakfast, to which he gloomily replied that the condemned man had eaten a hearty meal.
‘Oh come now, Master, don’t you think you’re being a bit pessimistic?’ I asked him. ‘King Cletus has a reputation for being fair and just. I hardly think he’d chop somebody’s head off simply because he didn’t find the jokes very funny.’
But Alexander didn’t seem convinced. He harnessed me to the caravan and, when we were ready to set off, Mistress Sarah came out to bid us farewell. She smiled at the apprehensive look on her husband’s face.
A Buffalope's Tale Page 9
